The Charlemagne Murders Read online

  “You seem to be quite well-versed in the general’s career, Brewster. I have to ask: were you one of those men who was treated shabbily by the general during or after the war?”

  For the first time there was a moment of emotion that showed in his face, but it passed like a distant rain cloud.

  There was a very brief but telling pause before Brewster responded.

  “Well, since you bring it up, I did have a black mark placed on my record as a result of decisions made by the general during that period. You may check the records yourself, Inspector, but basically this is what happened: Sir Hill-Brownwell had a specially selected team of investigators and enforcers whose task was to monitor and to control the German POWs returning to the British sector after their release from military prisons. The general hated the Nazis passionately, and went well out of his way to find ways to make the transition back into civilian life for the Germans as difficult as possible. The records are sealed, and few people in the general public are aware of just how brutal and unjust the occupying forces were throughout Germany up to the end of the occupation. I served under the general in a more-or-less mundane roll as a military policeman. I saw a great deal of brutality—even murder—of former POWs, and I made the personal mistake of reporting such improper actions up the chain of command.

  “In my own defense, there is developing documentation that something on the order of a million Germans were killed—most murdered—by Allied occupiers, and that was a fact that the officers in charge were determined to keep secret until well after their own deaths sometime in the far distant future. My report came to the attention of Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell.”

  His voice cracked slightly with what was obviously long pent-up emotion.

  “I was never brought up on charges nor had a chance to defend myself in the commanding officer’s summary hearing. I was not informed of such a hearing and certainly had no opportunity of having the services of a judge advocate general’s attorney. No, indeed. I simply was given a formal written reprimand, demoted one rank, and transferred back to the ranks serving at Sandhurst—well away from the occupied territories. Within a year, I was informed that I was to be discharged from the service. A young officer informed me that it would be most imprudent to protest because that would result in me receiving a bad conduct discharge. I tucked my tail between my legs and found work in the private sector, namely in the Army and Navy Club. It was real test of my mettle to keep quiet day after day when I was obliged to serve and to be obsequious and deferential to the man I so despised.”

  “Were you the man who stabbed Sir Hill-Brownwell and fought off Major Donelly, Brewster?”

  “I was not, much as I would have enjoyed doing so.”

  DCI Crandall-White allowed an awkward silence to descend on the interrogation. Both men locked eyes, and neither blinked.

  “Did you and Major Donelly join forces to murder the man?”

  “No. The murder took place just as the major described.”

  “How do you know that, Brewster? Were you an actual witness?”

  Brewster paused briefly.

  “Well, technically, no, I did not actually witness the killing. I did not see the man Major Donelly described. I assumed that the major is a man of honor and upright British character and had no reason to lie.”

  “That remains to be seen, I suppose. What do you know about the major? Do you have any knowledge of ill-will between him and the general?”

  “I have only seen entirely proper and courteous interchanges between the two men, Chief Inspector. In my recollection, such encounters were few and far between since the major was an infrequent guest on the premises. I would say that the men passed only most limited and casual greetings—polite but neither cordial nor inhospitable.”

  “Um hmmh. Please tell me your impression of the major. Is he a man prone to anger? Has he expressed grudges, especially such ill feelings toward the general?”

  “Major Donelly tends to keep to himself. Not very talkative to anyone. I have never heard him express any kind of ill-will towards any individual. He, too, was involved in the occupation forces at the end of the war. As I understand it, he was an officer in charge of the interim camps where returning German POWs were processed after returning from the Soviet prison camps. The only thing I ever recall him saying about that is that those men were deserving of the harsh lives they had endured under the Soviet gulag system, and they would not be men ever to be allowed to occupy significant positions in the new Germany being created by the Allies. Donelly was a captain at that time, as I recall.”

  “It’s time for a spot of lunch,” the DCI said, and the three coppers left for Charlie Brown’s Railway Tavern on West India Dock Road.

  Charlie Brown’s lived up to its designation as a public house, a true pub. The place was a world apart from cafés, bars, bierkellers, and even brewpubs. It had a sort of museum—a collection of curiousities patrons had brought in from all around the world. Its windows were made of smoked glass to obscure the clientele from looky-loos on the street. It was a decidedly decadent working class joint with bare board floors covered with sawdust to absorb the spitting and regular spillages—so, it was one of the ‘spit and sawdust’ pubs the gentry would never admit to patronizing. However, the place was always full of gents and coppers despite the hard uncomfortable seating accomodations. They got a laugh out of the place. Charlie Brown’s was a gastro-pub, one of the best in the city for all of its seediness and apparent lack of sanitation.

  The three detective inspectors ordered family-style plates of corned beef and sausage with mustard and pretzels, goat cheese and roasted tomato with sourdough bread and olive oil, and crispy pig’s ears served with lime, kosher salt, and chili. They splurged by ordering bakewell tart with heavy clotted cream for dessert, and took a few turns at trap shooting before settling down for their meal and beer.

  English Recipes

  Bakewell Tart—Serves Three or Four

  Ingredients

  -For shortcrust pastry—6 oz white flour, 2½ oz chilled butter, 2–3 tbsp cold water.

  -For the filling—1 tbsp raspberry jam, 4½ oz butter, 4½ oz caster sugar, 4½ oz ground almonds, 1 beaten egg, ½ tsp almond extract, 1¾ oz flaked almonds.

  -For the icing—2¾ oz icing sugar, 2½ tsp cold water

  Preparation

  -Pastry—put flour into a bowl and rib in butter with fingertips until the mixture is the texture of fine bread crumbs. Add water, mixing to form a soft dough. Roll out the dough on a lightly floured work surface and use to line an 8 in flan tin. Chill in the fridge for 30 mins.

  -Preheat the oven to 400° F.

  -Line the pastry case with aluminum foil and fill with baking beans. Bake blind~15 mins., then remove the beans and foil and cook for a further five mins. to dry out the base.

  -Filling—spread the base of the flan generously with raspberry jam.

  -Melt the butter in a pan, take off the heat, and then stir in the sugar. Add ground almonds, egg, and almond extract. Pour into the flan tin and sprinkle over the flaked almonds.

  -Bake about 35 mins. If the almonds brown too quickly, cover the tart loosely with foil to prevent burning.

  -Icing—Sift icing sugar into a separate bowl. Stir in cold water and transfer to a piping bag when ready. Remove tart from the oven, pipe the icing over the top in a zigzag design.

  -Devonshire cream—Pour 2 pts heavy, lightly pasturized cream into a heavy-bottomed oven-safe pot. For extra richness, may add ¼ cube whipped butter. Fill to 1–3 ins. Cover pot and place in oven at 180° F for at least 8 hrs. It is done when a thick yellowish skin forms above the cream. That skin is the clotted cream. Cool pot at room temperature then in fridge for another 8 hrs. Apply liberally to the pastry at time of serving.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Army and Navy Club in London [popularly known as The Rag], 36-39 Pall Mall, St. James Square, Sixth Floor Conference Room

  In the conference room
five floors up at the same time as DCI Crandall-White was questioning Majordomo Brewster, Major Donelly was stiff and ill-at-ease. That was not surprising given his recent experience. It was evident that he was none too keen on having to submit to questioning by the police. When the police officers first arrived on the scene, he had naively felt that his word as a Royal Army officer would suffice, and that would be the end of it. DI Bourden-Clift stood behind his partner Angela Snowden, projecting a calm but calculated menace. That image had its desired effect—that of unnerving Maj. Donelly. He calmed down as DI Snowden asked the first question.

  Snowden was such a striking figure of a woman, that most men—even those of rank—were a bit in awe of her. She had coal-black shiny hair which–at the moment–was done up in a tight bun, and snowy white unblemished skin. She did not wear any makeup, yet her lips were full and rosy; and her cheeks had that hint of color that women everywhere try to emulate with their makeup. She was tall and buxom, even in her sensible black shoes. She wore a fine woolen lady’s suit and a light-blue silk blouse. Although her bosom strained the material, DI Snowden had been meticulous to be certain that no hint of what lay beneath the shimmering blue material was allowed to see the light of day. She gave Major Donelly a brief friendly smile and then started with hard, direct questions without any attempt at ice-breaking social chit-chat.

  “Are you aware of any animosity on the part of Majordomo Brewster towards Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell?”

  “I am to some extent—nothing I could actually document, however, Inspector.”

  “This is just preliminary fact-finding, Major. Let us be the judges of what may be important or not.”

  “I have noticed that Brewster seems to avoid—seems to have avoided—the general during the times I have frequented the club. That was unusual since being affable and helpful are part and parcel of the majordomo’s duties. I once commented on that to the general just by way of making polite conversation, and he was quite brusque with me. ‘Not your concern, young man,’ he said, or words to that effect. I am naturally inquisitive; so, I did two things: first I queried Brewster; and second, I got into the regimental files a bit. That was not particularly difficult.

  “I hope I am not telling tales out of school….”

  “That would mean that you may not have the right to give the information you are prepared to give, or even that you are not entirely certain whether or not your information is correct. It also could mean that you would be breaking some sort of gentlemanly code of conduct that would make your communication mere gossip and that you might indiscreetly reveal private matters, secrets, or confidences. Let me remind you that this is a police investigation, and none of that is applicable here. We need your information, and withholding such information could be considered obstruction of justice,” DI Bourden-Clift stated with unsmiling authority, taking over the questioning—a smooth transition between the two partners to keep the person being interrogated off-guard and ill at ease.

  “Of course, of course. I understand completely. One evening after regular hours, I invited Brewster to join me in the gentlemen’s bar. We tossed back a few and were somewhat in our cups. I asked the man if there was some issue between him and the general. It was the first time I saw Brewster let down his guard. He told me that he had served as a sergeant major under Sir Hill-Brownwell in the British sector after the cessation of hostilities. He related a tale of having had a discrediting mark placed in his service file by the general. It is a matter of record that Sir Hill-Brownwell headed up the British occupation military police regiment. Brewster told me that the general had a specially selected team of investigators and enforcers whose task was to monitor and control the German POWs returning to the British sector after their release from military prisons. It was Brewster’s conviction that the general hated all Nazis, and that he went overboard to make the transition back into civilian life for the Germans as difficult as possible. He even indicated that there were atrocities. That is more than just Brewster’s opinion. I am a witness myself, and I can state without equivocation that all of the Allied occupation forces inflicted vengeful acts of retribution against former military and government personnel, their families, and on random civilians. There was torture, job and educational discrimination, and even murder—maybe upwards of a million—maybe more—deaths. Brewster complained that the official records are sealed, and few people in the general public are aware of just how brutal and unjust the occupying forces were throughout Germany up to the end of the occupation. I am afraid that I am of the same opinion. During my service I saw things, heard things, and read things, which would be a great disappointment to the British people.

  “Brewster told me that in his capacity as a sergeant major he served under the general in a more-or-less mundane role as a military policeman. He rattled off a litany of brutality, even witnessing murder of former POWs. His very words were, ‘I made the personal mistake of reporting such improper actions up the chain of command.’ Apparently that report made its way up the chain of command to the desk of Sir Hill-Brownwell.”

  Donelly paused and looked over at the two detective inspectors to gain permission to continue. They nodded their heads.

  “Brewster told me that he was never publically brought up on charges, but he never had an opportunity to present his side of the story … not even when charges were brought up against him in the commanding officer’s summary hearing conducted by the man he was accusing. Brewster said he was not even informed of such a hearing and was never assigned the services of a judge advocate general’s attorney to defend him. He was peremptorily given a formal written reprimand, demoted one rank to first sergeant, and transferred back to the ranks serving at Sandhurst—well away from the occupied territories. Although his ambition was to retire on a pension after a thirty-year unblemished career, he was discharged from the service with the notation that the discharge was a routine matter of reduction of forces for peacetime. Brewster went on to tell me that a young officer told him in no uncertain terms that it would not at all be in his best interests to protest. When he started to argue, he was told point blank that he would receive a bad conduct discharge if he did so—and that would haunt him for the rest of the days.

  “He shut his mouth and left with his pension. It took him a year or two, but he finally found work in the private sector, specifically here in the Army and Navy Club in London. Brewster was not an emotional man; that evening with his tongue loosened by the demon rum, he said it was a severe burden for him to keep his lips zipped day after day when he had to meet, serve, and be obsequious and deferential to the man detested and whom he believed to be a war criminal.”

  “I see. And how about yourself, Major, do you bear the general ill will? Do you share Brewster’s opinions?” asked DI Snowden.

  “I agree with Brewster’s analysis of postwar occupation issues in the British sector. I personally only served in the returning POW camps. I have to say that it was difficult to me as a former enemy combatant against those bestial Nazis to have to treat them with any degree of civility. If it had been up to me, I would have executed the lot and let God sort out the guilty from the innocent. I don’t believe that would have been all that difficult. Less than a handful would have fallen into the innocent category. There were even Frenchmen who served in Nazi SS regiments who returned to my camp. Did you know that?”

  When there was no answer, Donelly continued his narrative. “My fellow officers from the UK, the US, and the other allies felt the same about them. We did not give them any privileges; but by the same token, we were fair and decent in our treatment of them. No murders or tortures by my POW camp officers. I am afraid it was different in the civilian population. It seems likely that Brewster was correct in his complaints. He seems a decent sort; so, I am inclined to believe his personal rendition of his and the general’s interactions.”

  Major Donelly took a few needed breaths and regained his composure completely before DI Bourden-
Clift resumed the questioning started by DI Snowden, now taking a different and harder tack.

  Bourden-Clift was the polar opposite of his partner, the attractive DC Snowden. He was a black man, one of the few black detectives in the entire police force. He was as black at his end of the continuum as Snowden was white on her end. He was decidedly unattractive with a flat nose and flaring nostrils; his irises were so dark that it seemed that he did not have pupils. His lips were large and two-toned, and offputting where Snowden’s small cupid’s bow lips drew people to listen to her. The two partners played off each other seamlessly, and usually to the detriment of a guilty perpetrator they were tag-teaming.

  “Major, you were alone in the bar with the general. Is that your statement?”

  “Yes, until the murderer came in from the bar pantry and launched his attack.”

  “Are you sure the murderer was a man?”

  “Yes. I did see his face. His bodily movements were that of a man.”

  “How far away were you standing when the murderer attacked Gen. Hill-Brownwell?”

  “Perhaps ten or twelve meters. I was about to exit the building when I caught a glimpse of the man rushing in to inflict what I at first believed was a blow—a sort of judo chop—to the back of the elderly man’s neck, a despicable cowardly act.”

  “Indeed. But you learned differently later.”

  “I did. First, though, I rushed to try and save the general. I tried to tackle the villain; but he was apparently adept in the military hand-to-hand arts; and he got the better of me I am ashamed to report.”